When Music Memory Makes The Point

Who remembers this one then?

Because I most certainly do; that's for certain.

I wrote about the latest that's been happening concerning our current house move in THE WAITING GAME, which Vocal published seventeen days ago; it was only a short three-minute read, but seventeen days on from that story, and it has forever reminded me of a song from 1985 that has stuck in my head ever since. This one particular song replays over and over again, every time I stumble past a packed and sealed box... which is currently every single minute of every day, typically because there isn't any room in our house that doesn't contain... boxes... small boxes, medium-sized ones, and extremely large and heavy boxes, labeled neatly for when the time eventually arrives for that move.

Oh, and before I forget, what about those large plastic rolls of bubblewrap too, but that's a whole separate story altogether. All I can say about that is, who remembers that American film 'The Blob' way back in 1958?

'The Blob' and large rolls of bubblewrap: The Blob expanded and devoured everything in sight, just like those rolls of bubblewrap do... do you see the commonalities?

A worrying similarity, I'd say... or perhaps this whole moving nightmare is finally turning me into a pile of stressed-out mush?

Jonathan Townend, Author

So anyway, where was I?

Oh yes, the boxes, of course.

So here is that song that is currently well and truly stuck in my ageing head:

Living in a Box was formed in Sheffield in 1985, achieved major UK chart success between 1987–1990, and released two albums. But unresolved differences with the record company over the label's lack of performance in the U.S. led the band to split up in 1990.

It’s entertaining, isn’t it? How a simple song from long ago can suddenly step out of the background of your life and make itself known to you again, loud and clear, right when everything around you feels stripped back to cardboard and tape. There I was, surrounded by half‑packed boxes, the kettle buried somewhere I couldn’t reach, madly searching for a teaspoon, only to discover a stray fork, and the living room echoing in a way it never had before.

Then that song came into my head... 'Living In A Box.'

Not because I chose it, but because our universe has a sense of humour. One moment I was wrestling with bubble wrap, and the next I was transported instantly back to a time when that track meant something entirely different. Back then it was the soundtrack to late‑night radio, to my teenage dreams and hopes as I prepared to sit my secondary school exams, to that kind of optimism you don’t realise you’re carrying until life asks you to pack it up and move it somewhere new; it brought it all back to me (as if it was the day I moved out of my childhood home), some sad times but also some very happy memories carried me forwards.

Suddenly the boxes weren’t just boxes anymore. They were reminders. Containers of everything I’ve lived with, lived through, and am now carrying forward.

And that song, that unique song, was the thread stitching the past to the present, making the chaos feel strangely meaningful.

Jonathan Townend, Author

It’s remarkable how music does that. You can be knee‑deep in packing tape, exhausted, frustrated, wondering how on earth you’ve accumulated so much stuff… and then a melody from decades ago sweeps in and reframes the whole moment. It tells you, quietly but firmly, that you’ve been here before in your own way. That change isn’t new. That you’ve survived every transition so far, and you’ll survive this one too.

So yes, when all there is around you but cardboard boxes, what can you do… but sing? Or at least let the song remind you why you’re moving, what you’re keeping, and what you’re finally ready to leave behind.

It wasn’t just any song from 1985. It was the song, the one song that had threaded itself through a very particular moment in my life, a moment I hadn’t revisited in years. Funny how you can go about your days believing certain memories have settled like thick dust on a shelf, only to discover a specific melody, one song that could lift certain memories right back into the air again.

For me, that song belonged to a late‑summer evening, one of those warm, amber‑coloured nights that felt endless when you were young enough to believe they actually were. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, the window cracked open, the radio tuned just slightly off‑station so the music arrived with a faint hiss behind it. That hiss didn’t matter. In fact, it made the moment feel more real, more mine.

The song played during a moment when everything felt possible. I didn’t know much about the world yet, but I knew how that track made me feel: hopeful, restless, ready. It was the soundtrack to scribbled plans in notebooks, to imagining who I might become. My new future was something I could shape simply by wanting it enough.

Hearing it again now, today, in the middle of a house move, surrounded by boxes labelled kitchen, books, miscellaneous (there were strangely always too many miscellaneous labels).

It hit me with a clarity I wasn’t expecting. The memory didn’t arrive gently. It arrived whole. I could almost smell that summer air again, almost hear the soft hum of that old radio, almost see the younger version of myself sitting there, convinced that life was about to begin.

What struck me most was how different the song felt to me now. Back then it was a promise; now it had become far more, a powerful emotive reminder. A reminder that the person I was in 1985 is still here somewhere, tucked between the layers of everything I’ve lived through since. A timely reminder that moving house isn’t just about shifting belongings. It’s about shifting versions of yourself, deciding which ones you’re taking with you and which ones you’re finally ready to leave behind.

So as the song played, I paused. I let the memory settle. I let it speak. And in that moment, the chaos of the move didn’t feel quite so chaotic. It felt like another chapter, another transition, another chance to carry forward the parts of myself that still matter.

All because of the power of music.